Plus the edge of his sleeve, very much on fire.
Panic buzzes throughout my body. I spy a damp dishcloth near the sink. I snatch it and jump on him, clinging like a spider monkey. We fall to the floor in a heap. I straddle him, batting at his sleeve with the dishcloth.
“Poppy.” His hand is on my hip, fingers digging in. “Poppy.”
“Is it out? Is it out?”
“It’s fine.”
I keep blotting at his sleeve. “Fuck, I’m so sorry!”
“It’s fine,” he repeats, stopping me mid-motion. He looks at his arm, pressing his fingertip into the reddened skin. My stomach turns.
“What if it blisters? What if it gets infected?” I flap my hands. “Let’s go to urgent care. No, the emergency room.”
“Jesus, no. Get up. This isn’t my first burn.”
“That’s my favorite one,” I blurt before I can think better of it, pointing to one of the many tattoos gracing his arm. The panther with the knife in its mouth has an unfortunate pink streak running through its muzzle. “What if it ruins it?”
“You have a favorite—never mind.” He scowls. “I’m fine. Let me up.”
“What?” I grab his arm, turning it from side to side to check the damage.
He yanks it away. “You’re on top of me. Get off.”
“Oh.” My mortification increases tenfold. I’m not just on top of him, I’m on top of him like I’m about to ride him, for fuck’s sake. Someone ought to give me a Stetson and slap my ass to get me going. I skitter away, crablike, watching nervously as he turns off the burner and runs the tap. He puts his arm under the water with another little close-mouthed hiss. I try to speak, but the air is thick. Impossible to puncture. A solid minute goes by without either of us making another sound.
Eventually, with effort, he looks at me. I can’t read his eyes. He jerks his head in the direction of the garbage can.
“Take that out to the dumpster.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t go—”
“Now, Poppy.”
At the sound of my first name, I jolt into action. I drag the garbage can out the back door, ignoring the faint grunt of pain he lets out as soon as I’m out of the room. It’s followed by a crash that makes me wince. A plate just met its end.
“Jack?” I hear Herman ask. “What’s going on? Where’s Poppy?”
“Stay the hell out of this, Herm,” he snaps.
Tears prick my eyes as I drag the garbage can across the hot, cracked asphalt. It’s another sweltering day here; not even the palms are rustling above my head. I tie off the garbage, wrinkling my nose at the ripe smell, and lift it from the can. The bag immediately sags, a bit of plastic poking through. I shudder, gritting my teeth as I yank the bag the last few feet to the fly-infested dumpster.
As I lift it, it snags on the lip of the dumpster, ripping wide-open. I shriek, jumping back, but I’m not quite fast enough to escape the cascade of garbage. Rotten food falls onto my shoes, splattering up my leggings.
Jack thunders out of the kitchen, opening the door with enough force that it bounces against the wall. Our eyes meet across the alleyway.
“What the hell happened?”
“What does it look like?”
“You don’t take the bag out of the can.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me not to!”
“Because it’s common fucking sense, Princess!” He stalks down the alleyway. His forearm still looks angry, blistering red. “I told you to stop recording.”
“I know,” I grit out.
